H E L P
by Jacob R. Dring
Summary: Influenced by the IMO-mediocre "F.E.A.R." game, this is not based on it but derived from it. So follow Zulu Squad of unique soldiers into the depths of paranormal hell on earth. Not nearly my best work, but would appreciate reviews nonetheless. R&R -thanx
1. Forward & Shadow Blast

**Forward**

HELP is a secretive WAR (Worldwide Assault & Rescue) agency that is responsible for violently eliminating hostile paranormals around the globe. Although HELP (Hostile Elimination of Paranormals) is known in the governmental underworld as containing a starring role of gung-ho soldiers and commanders—it is the men that serve point, leading the frontline of the group, that should receive the most…_pity_. The things they see are often more disturbing than when they must deal with them, things beyond this world of demonic and evil natures. These men's eyes shrivel at each horrific sight, their skin tingles and hands tremble, brain throbs, blood races, and the heart beats faster than ever every second they enact their job. Their _job_. It is often that these men furtively scribble suicide notes—of which are never found, nor performed; it is more often that they write our their confessions of past sins [both minor and major—yet never discovered.

It is these men that have a buried cry for _help_.

For it is these soldiers of HELP that deserve the most credit—and pity—for their valor and dedication to the cause of maintaining a safe world for the human race.

**Shadow Blast**

1:24 a.m., Nov. 16

"Shit…shit!"

"Hey, Charlie!?"

"Shit!" Charlie Newman smacks his XAF against his gloved palm, trying to revive the dying battery. "Fuck!" The darkness enveloping him is beyond pitch black; without light, he is lost in the shadows.

"Charlie!" Stewie Kensworth continues to call, breaking the surrounding silence. He turns corners and jogs down hallways…guiding his path with the Xtreme Attachment Flashlight integrated into his G36E.

Charlie, however—two minutes' distance from his rushing comrade—was not so fortunate.

Then it clicked.

The XAF lens flickered with light—and then shone on. Charlie's satisfactory grin was vaguely visible; the light beam lit a clear path ten feet ahead of him. He quickly spun on his heel to reverse, and turned a sharp corner—

The XAF beam glared a spotlight unto the paranormal face of a hideous being having lurked in the shadows. Charlie stopped short as the horror's series of crimson eyes flared—and visible breath shot out its flat-nosed nostrils.

"Ah, f—"

The creature's maw gaped and a mouth of needle teeth glinted from the XAF light, whilst a screeching hiss burst from within.

Charlie's delayed reaction time was not smart, but he remained lucky enough to deliver the first strike. He pulled back the trigger. The MP5A4 rumbled in his gripping hands as it sprayed out half its clip into the creature—at point-blank range. The infernal beast shuddered from the direct hail of 9mm gunfire, unable to even reach out as it was battered from close range. Finally, the creature's chest pumped full of lead, it collapsed backwards so it lay sprawled out supine on the floor. Still, though barely, alive, the thing squirmed and hissed for a moment—a dozen eyes frantically blinking—while oily burgundy blood oozed from its jaws.

Charlie stepped forward, pressing his G.I. Timberland upon the creature's wounded torso, and made five more crimson 'eyes' in its face. At last it ceased movement.

Being the often-vain young man he was, Charlie nodded to himself while smiling conceitedly; he figured killing one was better than none—which is completely true. However, he was far too sure of himself, especially _now_. Thence he trotted forward and took a wide turn around the next corner, his weapon half-raised.

"Fuckin' _shit_," Charlie's eyelids shot wide and his jaw dropped.

The hallway ahead was about fifty yards down to the far exit, five yards wide…and flowing with throngs of those twelve-eyed _freaks_.

Imps, actually—Shadow Imps. They are hideous humanoid demons standing at seven feet with oily black skin and tentacle hands used to swiftly traverse obstacles and be perfectly stealthy concurrently. Such obstacles as vertical walls and high ceilings. Like _these_.

There were dozens on the walls and ceiling, though few on the actual floor.

"Motherf—"

Charlie spun around to greet a jaw-dropped comrade. Despite the shocked and worried expression glued to his face, the young man seemed alright. A tear which cut through the thick fabric on his left bicep, thence scraping the skin bloody, and a bruise on his right cheek were the only visible signs of damage. Charlie was glad to see this, although quite dejected that it was _just_ him.

Charlie spoke first, in a low whisper so that he may not startle the infernal army ahead. "W-what _now_, Stew?"

"Honestly," Stewie sighed, "we're fucked."

Charlie rolled his emerald eyes in their fatigued sockets. "Well," he said half-smiling, "thanks for the optimism."

"_You_ got any suggestions?" He barked back, maintaining a whisper. Meanwhile the Shadow Imps seemed not to mind at all, simply 'hovering' with suppressed hisses. "I mean…we've been SOL since we got here: ambushed, lost most of our squad, outnumbered again and the rest of the men have been totally MIA…most probably _dead_—"

"Not _me_, at least."

"_Wha_—" the two were glad when they turned to see their DemoMan, Julius Hammer. The 6'2" 260-pound bulky black man was scratched up quite a bit, but that glare remained in his eyes and the Vulcan still filled his thick fingers. Similarly with Stewie, his physical condition involved nothing more than a couple minor flesh-wounds and bruises.

"I couldn't find anyone else, but I _did_ manage to get to a phone." Julius had evidently seen the demonic mass ahead, yet did not seem to worry much for it. Meanwhile, his news brought a buried confidence and momentary glee to the duo. To finish it off, Julius reported, "We've got air support and evac incoming…"

"Julius, what would we do without you?" Charlie grinned, reloading his submachine gun.

"Absolutely _jack-shit_." Julius replied straight-faced.

"Damn right, my man." Stewie grunted, glancing back…he realized that the Shadow Imps were gradually advancing. "Now, how we gonna do this?"

"Guns blazin', fuck 'em all, spray-'n-pray,…"

"So…no _strategy_?" Stewie interjects Julius, concerned.

Julius shook his head and sighed. "Oh, and one more thing—HELP evac E.T.A.: thirteen minutes…that's _four_ minutes now. Thus, we also have four minutes at most to get_ out_ before the air raid comes _in_."

The looks on the pair's faces suddenly transformed from delight to discontent. Then again, as they realized it, their disappointment fueled their strength; for, if they didn't haste, they would be fried in the incoming air-strike. The good side of this is that if they did indeed hurry, they would leave their demonic foes behind to be obliterated in the devastation.

"Stew," Julius abruptly asked, "you got what we came for, right?"

"As secure as my balls, Julius."

"Thanks for the info." Julius retrained from laughing, and took to business. "_Follow me_—"

There was no delay, no more further await.

Stewie got behind the bulky Julius and Charlie quickly followed. Despite his lumbering size, Julius was a built and powerful man—especially one of whom will run faster than an ostrich in the worst conditions if need be. In this case he was not running, but with knees bent and hipping the Vulcan as it should be, he gradually trudged forward down the hallway. The approach of the three sparked the Shadow Imp multitude so they scurried about their surfaces—whichever they occupied—and hissed, while whipping their tentacles at the air in intimidation.

At last, the first shot was fired.

Julius had pushed down the red button on the handle of the Minigun—and holding it—thus causing the weapon's grouped barrels to rotate, starting up. Finally they were whirring as a blur, spitting out a single 9.5mm round every nanosecond. Julius's semi-

squatting position quickly altered to a leaning stance as it aimed upwards. A gang of the infernal creatures were splattered against the ceiling, instant victims of the Vulcan-toting Julius. Hisses of menace and screeches of defeat sounded from the horrors, as they began to more swiftly react.

Although Julius did well clearing the path directly ahead—by obliterating most on the ceiling and upper walls—the other two had to protect the trio's further vulnerabilities. With a perfect assault rifle, Stewie shredded up the line's direct frontal and often spun to get at his immediate sides. Behind, meanwhile, was Charlie—and his close-ranged SMG—blasting away any that remained after the first two's chaos.

It may seem easy to gradually proceed down this fifty-yard corridor, but with realism on the trio's side it was made quite difficult. Although Julius's Vulcan had a practically infinite magazine (the belt of 2,000 rounds gradually depletes), it _did_ have the unfortunate effect of natural overheating; therefore Julius had to maintain medium bursts (about 100 rounds) of fire as he went along. But the major cons came to Stewie and Charlie—especially Charlie. Stewie was probably worse, though, since he had more to eliminate; his G36E had a magazine of forty rounds. Charlie, however, not only had a clip capacity of thirty bullets but was also low on magazines.

They were more than halfway down and he was on his second-to-last clip. Stewie still had three more, and Julius had an unknown (his estimate was a mere estimate) 400, quickly fading.

As Charlie caught a dropping Imp with a burst to the torso and Stewie decapitated two ahead with three-round bursts, Julius encountered a charging one to his left. Julius let off of the button, allowing the chaingun to cool down, and side-swiped the creature with the weapon's grouped-barrel extension. The force he had jerked it and the weight of the overall barrel caused the melee devastation he had hoped for: the creature stopped midway of its charge, having caught the Vulcan with its abdomen, and practically split in half. Its taut skin held it seemingly together, but within its interior the cartilage-spine was severed and the creature was hence terminated.

Just ahead, Julius realized, the pair of glass double-doors sat closed.

"_G__o_!" Stewie shouted above the gunfire and wicked screeching. He crouched, hastily reloaded, and by the time he stood back up he sighted something that brought a

fatigued smile on his face: Julius charged ahead, literally plowing over a live Imp, and then slammed his right shoulder into one of the double-doors. The body-sized glass panes shattered into a million tiny splinters whilst the aluminum frames gave way in a bending manner. The hinges popped and one set of the double-doors actually collapsed…_with_ Julius. Nonetheless, he had made it outside. The singular and minor light of the stars and moon in the indigo sky above were enough to steer away most Shadow Imps, unless they're loners.

These weren't, though.

"C'mon, Charlie!" Stewie hollered, waving an arm forward as he sprinted forward. He plowed down a Shadow Imp crawling off the wall near him with a spray of 5.56mm fire. Oily-crimson blood splattered and a hiss faded away.

Charlie, behind, was in the midst of reloading for his last magazine.

"_C'mon_!" Julius's bellowing voice erupted like a roar; he had gotten back to stance, and was now about ten feet from the exit/entrance.

Charlie went onward, still fumbling with his magazine, wile what nearby remaining Imps assailed his position.

Gunfire sounded, which for some reason startled Charlie—and got him moving. He finally locked in the clip, cocked the firing lever, and sprayed some aimless shots around him. A lucky burst caught an Imp in the face, obliterating its evil brain and splattering it against the wall. At last Charlie came to the double doors, and spotted his comrade Stewie kneeling at them and shooting off bursts at nearing Imps. He supposed, for a split-second of thought, that if it weren't for Stewie just then in there he would have fallen prey.

And then a rumbling entered the trio's ears as Charlie stumbled through where the double-doors used to be.

"Let's _go_!" Julius reminded them to hurry.

The moment they moved, a HELP jet boomed overhead, dropping an unseen 'bomb' unto the building. Acting as they would in an action film, the three threw their arms over each other and dove forward, the moment the blast proceeded.

There was no fiery explosion or rupturing of earth, but instead a mere—though immense—flash of incredible white light. It made a momentary _sphzt_ crackle and in a second were the fading screams of dying demons.

As the SB-10X bomb's flash effects faded away, the trio of combatants lifted their heads to that familiar sound of whirring rotors. They gazed above them to see a lowering UH-2B chopper with rope ladder descending.

"Let's move, move, _move_!" A commanding voice bellowed from above, obscured by the beating of rotors against the indigo sky.

First went Julius, whom then helped Charlie up the swaying ladder. Before Stewie climbed up, he peered back to see the mostly-unharmed Madison Square Garden arena…the hundred ashy cadavers of Shadow Imps gradually dispersed into the air; their demonic souls would suffer greatly due to their defeat in the fiery pits of Hell.

Stewie reached up, gripped a thick Dominican hand, and was pulled aboard the helicopter. Julius and his eyes met, and they took a deep sigh together, bobbing their heads low. As the chopper lifted with a subtle roar, the co-pilot helped Charlie in raising the ladder. In the distance of the early morning, the fatigued trio could see the fading smoke trails of the exiting HELP jet.

"We greatly appreciate the evac," Charlie said with a vague smile.

As the co-pilot took a seat in his spot parallel to the pilot, flipping gauges, he said without glancing back: "No problem—and I'm sure B.J. _greatly appreciates_ it too…unless you don't have what y'all came for."

"After all that—" Julius began.

"No need to worry about _that_," Stewie said, patting his right thigh where a bulge indicated the presence of their achieved goal. "Although the loss of…" He stopped short, squeezing shut his eyes.

Julius sighed, shaking his head.

"Brothers," Charlie finally took a serious turn. "They have not been lost…they've been _freed_."

The co-pilot may have not heard what they had spoken, nor really cared much for it. But as the UH-2B helicopter sped through the starlit sky, towards the secretive HELP headquarters, the trio of men pondered Charlie's words.


	2. Shadow Blast, Prelude

**Shadow Blast, Prelude**

10:43 p.m., Nov. 15

"Gentlemen," Bryan Jefferson announced in a deep voice, "your mission tonight—as you know it—is to infiltrate Madison Square Garden in order to obtain significant data to our cause."

"Which _is_?—" Hal Kilmer asked, chuckling with Charlie Newman.

B.J. sighed. "The data, you mean?"

"Um…_both_." He laughed.

"_Zip it_, men," a commanding voice barked over the PA. It was HELP Colonel Jacob Locke, remaining concealed behind a tinted pane of glass on the second floor of the room, overlooking the briefing table. The oval table seated eight men, a full HELP squad. At the head of the table, though frequently walking around, was HELP Briefer Bryan Johnson, or B.J. He was a slender man with short blonde hair, always dressed in a nice suit, with a slim face and broad cheekbones, a man of twenty-nine that has a 'misplaced' voice tone. This as part of his intelligence and strategic smarts have impressed more people than disappointed.

Continuing with the briefing, B.J. explains what he has said thus far, a partial answer to Hal's smartass remark.

"The _data_ I speak of should be in the form of a PDC," B.J. says, speaking of what HELP labels a 'Paranormal Data Cell,' a device similar to the human's PDA in size and partial function, something that has confused most of the HELP staff about the seemingly-primitive demons. Apparently they store critical information in these devices, of which consist of two metallic bars of about two inches that—when brought apart from another—'unravel' a holographic sheet of encrypted information. It's 'encrypted' to HELP because the lettering is in extremely complex Latin, which takes the agency about half an hour to decode. "The location, however, of this device is completely unknown to

us." B.J. continues, "Nonetheless, our guess is as good as yours—it may be in the bowels of the arena, perhaps in the very center. We believe that no single demon shall possess it, but instead it should be hidden in a single spot."

_So we'll be playing hide-and-go-seek,_ another troop, Gregory Smith, thought. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Now, _what_ exactly are we dealing with, here?"

Unlike Greg, Hal was similar to his friend Charlie in that he truly was a smartass. "You mean, _besides_ the Knicks' sacred playground?"

There was no barking from Colonel Locke, but merely the heaving breathing over the PA speaker. Hal grunted to himself, then sighed. Hew flipped up a hand in showing of minor apology.

"What I _mean_, is, that the demons we should be encountering here will be the one-and-only Shadow Imps." B.J. notes, "Because, afterall, it's a vast building hidden at shadows in the middle of the darkest of nights. The probability that you will run into any other type of paranormal is quite unlikely, but still be cautious…as always."

"Then…" Stewie asked, not thinking much of it, "…why don't we just bomb the damn building?"

"_Bomb_ Madison Square Garden? Are you _insane_?" Hal laughed.

"Nah, he means with the flash-bang thing." Julius Hammer corrected. "Right?"

Stewie nodded. "Yeah, that's what I meant…"

"The SB-10X you mean…?" B.J. said. Stewie nodded. "Well, as with any form of air support, especially around a publicly populated area, we will only resort to it if it is indeed our last solution, or under any extreme emergency. Afterall, you must remember,

despite the lack of physical damage or noise of the actual bomb, the presence of a jet or helicopter is enough clamor to awake any nearby residents. So, remember gentlemen, HELP acts primarily as a form of law enforcement—but indeed a clandestine one, too. The gunfire that will undoubtedly ensue within the building is at the least of our worries. Air support is the last thing we need, and if o then we shall do it as discreetly as possible.

"I do understand your reasoning as how such air support may seem minor, but trust me boys—it is certainly a major aspect of our work."

Everyone nodded to themselves.

"Please, Bryan," Colonel Locke's voice came online, "tell the boys about, uh, the _It_."

All eight soldiers shifted in their leather seats, turning to glare curiously at B.J. The Briefer did his best to explain. "What the Colonel means, pardon, is that the reason of this mission—being extremely vital to our cause—lingers on a single subject." He paused, expecting Hal or Charlie to spit out "What, _mathematics_?" but got nothing. He was proud, now, of their concentration…or was it _fear_? "This entity, from what the agency has been hearing of infernal rumors across the globe, could possibly be the devil incarnate."

At this everyone's eyes sparked with fear and eagerness simultaneously. They did not move a muscle, otherwise. They were _set_.

"We believe that a demonic soul in the form of Hell's mightiest warrior may be surfacing sometime soon. In what form, we don't know. What new, or existing, powers it may have—we don't know. But, most significantly, _where_—we don't know. That is why we _must_ retrieve this PDC for it most probably may contain a hint, or clue, to the arrival of our ultimate goal."

The pause that followed was long and uncomfortable for all.

B.J. moves over to the head of the table, where a projection screen is lain upon a display board. It is blank.

"We have codenamed this presumed entity _Diablo_." He stopped for a second, again waiting for any comical comeback. Nothing. "Now, I as all of you get the possibly humorous label we have chosen…but there is nothing, repeat _nothing_, to laugh about this matter. Afterall, it is in the legendary _Librarius Ex Horadrim_ Book One: Of Heaven and Hell that the "Great Evils" of the infernal underworld are mentioned to their vast extent. Diablo, as cited, was—and perhaps _is_, still—the "Lord of Terror." With that, we shall name this alleged monstrosity, something that we _must_ gain control of. Does everyone understand the background to our presumption of both the label and the arrival?"

Everyone nodded.

"So, what are we going to do, if—or when—we discover where this thing is surfacing?" A troop asked. It was Stewie Kensworth.

B.J. sighed. "According to our intelligence and myself, of strategical aptitude, that we shall conduct an ultimate assault on Diablo upon its arrival…of course, our power versus its Hellish strength may or may not be proportional. We will come to determine that later."

"And, may I ask," squad Sniper Kenny Jenson said, "_why_ exactly do we need to eliminate this thing, oh-so-crucially." Kenny was indeed one of the most intelligent, and not to mention clandestine, soldiers in the agency—especially in this squad—but he just wanted to push it.

"Precisely, to cause ultra intimidation, give us more confidence, and possibly break a link in the paranormal's chain of terror." Half of the combatants did not quite comprehend B.J.'s analogy. He rolled his eyes, and explained, "So we bombard, and most hopefully eliminate, this Diablo…upon this, we for one give ourselves a huge boost of confidence—afterall, we'd be taking out a supposedly huge villain amongst our targets. Secondly, we greatly coerce and intimidate our paranormal enemies by showing that _we_ are the dominance in this world."

"_Hoo-ra_!" The squad barked in unison, some giggling.

B.J. smirked. "Lastly, and certainly not least, we will have dealt a major blow to the paranormal's Hellish reign, undoubtedly crippling their own confidence and perhaps future plans."

The silence that followed was like an applause for Bryan Jefferson.

"Excellent briefing, Bryan…" Locke sounded pleased. "Now, men, you will be equipped and suited up. You will infiltrate the New York arena via sewage system. It will be messy and dirty, but then again that's why most of you are ex-Marines. You will then spread yourselves into the locked-down building, and use your scanners to read any nearby signs of electronic devices with powerful signals—"

"Like the PDC…" Fred Denninger interrupted, although he wished he hadn't. "Yeah, we've done this before."

Colonel Jacob Locke was actually pleased, yet again. "Great. Then suit up…and _good luck_, men."


	3. Home Sweet Home,,,?

**Home Sweet Home…?**

3:46 a.m., Nov. 16

The cool water that ran down his face felt good. It felt mighty good, actually. His bare body soaked under the refreshing liquid that gently rained from the showerhead was exactly what Stewie needed after what he had just endured. The soap which he added subsequently stung the raw wounds in his skin, but that was not the only pain he felt.

He hung his head low, letting the water drench his thin head of hair. He blinked, allowing the water to stream across the surface of his tired eyes. He was used to more than just water being over them…sweat, tears, blood…

Soon, though, they begun to sting with the mixture of water, shampoo, and tears. He wept to himself in the shower. An arm slung out to the side and fingers gripped the shower curtain…he clenched hard, fingernails pressing into his own skin. Stewie's sorrow was temporarily being washed away by the refreshing shower water, though it would never leave him.

* * *

Charlie lay supine in the large bathtub now filled with revitalizing water. The warm liquid softened his wounds and the bubbles formed by the soap cleansed them but stung too. He often grimaced as he bathed the injuries, but his flesh wounds were the least of his worries.

The fact that Charlie's eyes had previously missed the sight of his brotherly friend Hal Kilmer being killed by a demon was not what disturbed him…but it was the mere fact that he had died without Charlie's help. He had been afraid, bogged down in his own troubles, yet nonetheless he felt like that was no reason to have left Hal alone. He had wanted to help. He couldn't.

A stream of salty tears flowed down his damp cheek and ran into the water which he bathed in. He felt as though he weren't immersed in water and soap, but instead in tears and blood.

Silently, he wept.

* * *

Julius's hulk of a body could barely fit in the HELP shower space.

But as the icy-cold water streamed over his muscular figure, he literally wanted to smash in his surroundings. Julius was a tough man,. But with death and disturbances surrounding a life of violence, despite the wish to help, no man can be peaceful to himself.

Julius presses a palm against the glassy curtain to his left, a wall of transparent material he can see a faint reflection of himself. He clenches his jaw and squeezes shut his eyelids. His thick fingers screech against the damp glass.

* * *

Everyone is hurting, within, but do their best with the real thing: _business_. 


	4. An Earned Arsenal

**An Earned Arsenal**

8:58 a.m., Nov. 16

After a sorrowful yet necessary bathing, followed by a helpful and well-earned resting…what remained of Bravo Squad conjoined in the Briefing Lobby.

Three bodies met once again, well-cleansed and bandaged, with weak smiles on their faces. They were to meet in this room at eight o'clock.

"Gentlemen," it was Colonel Jacob Locke. He remained in his office upstairs, only a sitting silhouette visible. "I honestly apologize, yet again, for your losses. So do all of HELP, especially myself. You did, nonetheless, achieve your goal, despite the outnumbering." He paused, coughing. But before he could speak again, in walked B.J.—and beside him, a familiar among the trio.

It was their team Sniper, Kenny Jenson. He was dressed up, and with a mere bruise above his left eyebrow and a bandaged bicep and calf—but otherwise he seemed in good condition. A slight limp was visible in his bandaged leg, but he still acted himself.

The shocked and concurrently-joyous looks of the three men collided when they came to happily greet whom they thought had fallen in their prior conflict.

Kenny was a six-foot slender man with fair muscle, a slender face with striking mahogany eyes and fine eyebrows, head topped with a dark buzz-cut. An agile combatant he was, and perhaps may still be, with a quick eye and swift reflex point that have given him the label of HELP's prized sharpshooter.

"Heyy!" He smiled brightly, greeting his friends and brothers-in-arms.

They were given a mere couple minutes to laugh and greet one-another, from which Kenny told the other three how he had come up; he spoke of fighting off a gang of the Imps with the only weapons left he had, a UMP-45 and a Glock, then coming back to

the sewage exit and finally being picked up by HELP's following WAR team. So they exchanged minute tears, but were given only that time before B.J. got to it.

"Gentlemen, will you please sit…" Once they had, he spoke with a grunt. "Your team, despite the casualties, have succeeded in uncovering and retrieving the PDC we had sought after. It is taking an unusually long time, however, to translate and decode the encryptions on the device, but as our guys are doing so—I have excellent news."

"It better be bullets 'n babes, B.J.—don't disappoint me!" Julius laughed.

B.J. chuckled to himself. "well, Julius, you are half-right, there."

Julius's smile faded. He sighed. "Oh well, then, hand them girls over!"

Everyone laughed together.

"No, no…not quite yet, at least." B.J. smirked, "HELP has officially received a brand-new upgraded arsenal from WAR and the U.S. Military to award especially _us_—and _you_—for the achievements. Then-again, I will admit that if y'all had failed, we would have still gotten them."

Together, again, they laughed.

Colonel Locke did not, however, appreciate that last comment by B.J.

"So, shall I introduce them to you?"

"Please do." Kenny grinned.

B.J. signaled for the lights to be shut off; they were. In the darkness, yet again, the _four_ watched as B.J. lit up a projection screen and began a presentation. The first image, large enough to see from twenty yards away, was indeed of a weapon.

"This, my boys, is the next generation of blended weaponry…a conjoined assault rifle and a 12-gauge shotgun making for an incredible weapon."

All during the presentation, the four men grinned and made notes to each other via whispers, like teenagers watching a movie. They often gripped their armrests in eagerness to get their clutches on these things.

"It is officially the StA-52 SAR, a weapon that will become a common primary weapon amongst WAR's ranks. However, it does have its pros and cons—as any weapon does. For the assault rifle section, placed strategically atop the shotgun portion, is relatively inaccurate, especially compared to the current G36 models. Its design, as you can see, is closely modeled after the FAMAS G2, with the addition of a scope lens providing four-times magnification. Before I go into the clip capacity, allow me to introduce you to the next-gen of magazines—" B.J. clicked his remote and the next slide showed the intricate system of reloading and the design of the weapon's magazine. "The PIOC [pronounced pee-ock, or Pop In-Out Cylinder, magazine system of reloading you will see in a couple other units in this newcomer arsenal. The pro: the cylindrical magazine has a larger clip capacity than ours today, and is also due to a faster rate of fire; the con, though, is that it is slightly heavier…but I'm sure all your ladies can deal with that."

Laughter sounded, but quickly deceased as B.J. continued.

"So all you need to do is flip up the top panel of the buttstock, easily remove the cylindrical magazine, pop in another, and shut the top panel—and _wham!_ average reload time of about three-to-four seconds, once practiced. This one, the StA-52, has a magazine capacity of fifty rounds while the shotgun portion can hold five shells at a time in the lower stock. And yes, boys, it _is_ pump-action."

"What about ammunition?" Stewie asks.

"Oh, of course…" B.J. pardoned himself. "Like I said, the shotgun portion is obvious 12-gauge buckshot. The rapid-fire, however, is standard-issue 5.56-millimeter semi-AP ammunition."

"_Semi_-armor-piercing?" Charlie hisses. "Why not full-AP? What, is it too _thick_?"

"Precisely," B.J. said, squinting his eyes. Charlie seemed a bit astounded. "You must understand, gentlemen—and I'm sure you do, you're not military-dumbasses." He paused, suppressing a chuckle. "Even the slightest addition of thickness, say by each centimeter, could result in the slower rate-of fire or larger magazine build and affect the whole weapon. Semi-AP is the current ammunition for most small-scale assault rifles…and with an extraordinary addition of the combined 12gauge shotgun, the StA-52 should remain as it is."

Everyone nodded, silent. Charlie leaned back in his chair and rested his crossed feet on the glass table. He expected Colonel Locke to command him otherwise…silence.

B.J. clicked the remote and a second weapon showed.

"This is the Tropov-21 Pistol, but it has a surprising feature—so stop sighing and rollin' your eyes just 'cause it's handgun."

Everyone took a heavy sigh, in unison.

"Now, this too—even this small sidearm—revolves around a cylindrical clip." He paused and pointed at the barely noticeable small cylinder attached just below the muzzle, "See here—that's it. Why would a pistol have this mechanism? Because it allows for a much more efficient three-round burst mode, that packs quite a punch with its 9.5-millimeter bullets; it _does_ have a secondary, mode, too, which is merely a single shot: more accurate but less powerful, of course, and also an obvious slower rate-of-fire. The clip capacity here is twenty-one rounds."

The next one up looked identical to the current standard Desert Eagle.

"I know what you're thinking—_ain't that a D-Eagle?_" B.J. smiled, "And it is, but just an upgrade…"

"How the hell could a _D-Eagle_ get, well, _better_?" Kenny asked.

"Allow me…" B.J. said, proudly, "IMI has increased its original popular Desert Eagle .50 two ways: it's lighter, slightly slimmer, has a larger clip capacity, and fairly more accurate. Of course it still uses its .50-Caliber Magnum rounds, and now has an extended clip capacity from seven to ten rounds. Huh?"

Everyone nodded, seemingly impressed.

"And, of course, it still has its distinctive design and stainless-steel coating."

He clicked the remote and a whitish-colored machinegun appeared. It looked like Germany's MG42, except for the coloring and lightweight design. "This is the LMG Stova." He paused, nodding with a smirk, "And I know what you're thinking…a _white_ gun? Not many of those, yes. But this is our response to Germany's MG42; think of it as a lightweight version, shorter too, and easier to use. Why, for one, is because of the presence of the PIOC system. You can see here, at the left just under the weapon," B.J. pointed to indicate a tan-colored foot-long cylinder, "is the magazine. It holds an impressive 200 rounds and is easier to reload than any belt-fed weapon yet known to man. It fires extraordinarily fast, but due to this among other things, it is highly inaccurate; also, due to the low caliber—9.2 millimeters—each individual shot is relatively weak. However, it seems to be the constant battering of bullets on your target that will finally wear it down. Please remember that the PIOC system not only decreases the reload rate and increase the rate-of-fire, but also boosts the propulsion force behind each shot, a great advantage over many other weapons. Lastly, note the bipod stands folded just beneath the vented muzzle."

With another click of the remote came an interesting weapon that looked quite similar to a small revolver.

"Thinking a revolver? Think again." B.J. said. "Not a revolver, nor a flare gun—although with combined similarities from both worlds. This stainless-steel handgun-sized weapon is in fact a sort of grenade launcher. It's the BP-02 Pup, which has the basic operations of a flare gun—pop open the barrel, insert the ammo, snap it back, and fire. Except here it uses 20-millimeter HE grenades. It can hold two simultaneously, with an interesting storing capability in the rear of the barrel. Once the first is fired, the second pops into firing mode. After that, you simply load it with two more the same way you would a flare gun. The only other mode of fire is a double-shot, where there's a switch on

the side to allow the second to, shall we say, _come into play_." B.J. paused, taking a breath. "As you can tell, the grip of the weapon is similar to a revolver, while the barrel is a few inches long and of course stainless-steel."

Once the next weapon came onscreen, the four men sitting at the table shifted in their seats. They were beyond interested—especially Julius.

"This, my friends, is the PnV-13 Siska." The weapon was a very long heavy-looking one at that, with a sort of short cylindrical magazine placed beneath it, and a long thin barrel protruding from it. It was apparently hip-supported, with a curving brace that would secure one's body, similar to the Vulcan Minigun. "It fires explosive-tipped 20-millimeter bullets at high velocity, with extreme accuracy, and a devastating yet contained splash-damage effect. Obviously, if you get hit head-on with one of these things," B.J. pointed to an image of an individual bullet, "you'll be dead right on the spot; however, the splash radius is approximately two meters, so just make sure you hit within the range and keep a fair distance."

"Size?" Julius's one-worded question was a significant entity to answer.

_Ah, of course,_ B.J. told himself. "The Siska is about seven feet long, while the barrel—as you can see—takes up more than half its length. It weighs significantly less than the Minigun you're used to, Julius, making it an essential heavy weapon addition to your arsenal…"

"_How_, exactly, much lighter?"

"Well, let's just say—" B.J. started, but noted the look in Julius's eye. He was going to tell him that the weight of his Minigun Vulcan was forty-one pounds, and then give the comparison—but Julius knew every inch of his guns. B.J. sighed. "The PnV-13 Siska is precisely twenty-nine pounds, _including_ the ammunition pack…ten pounds lighter than your Minigun."

Julius was shocked, though keeping a straight face and simply raising his eyebrows. He was quite impressed. He had just one more question, though, that he knew B.J. would cover sooner or later—but just wanted to push it. "And this _ammunition_?"

"Like I said, gentlemen," B.J. paused, realizing that the only one of them to use the Siska would be Julius—"_Julius_…is that the Siska uses explosive-tipped 20-millimeter rounds, which are propelled through a barrel the circumference a mere centimeter thicker than the bullet itself, at high speed. The report is not as loud as you would think, making a low _pop_ sound, and then the explosion similar to a M91 hand-grenade. As for the ammo, Julius, the magazine is of a shortened cylindrical design containing six of these rounds. They fire like all other cylindrical systems, rotating after each shot and firing. However, one thing to note—and as you will get used to over target practice, later—"

That alone sparked a higher eagerness in the four men's minds.

"—is that after each shot you will have to cock back the handle which you hold on," B.J. pointed to a handlebar arching over the bulk of the weapon, prior to the barrel, "thus preparing the next shot. Reloading is similar, too: cock it back, flip it over, pop out the empty container and lock in another. Then, you're ready to go."

"Sounds…hm, _tasty_." Julius said half-smiling.

Charlie looked over to him and laughed. "You are one strange man…"

"Indeed." Julius admitted-straight-faced.

"We have one more weapon in this new arsenal, gentleman—but afterwards are a couple of HELP's own additions." B.J. paused, clicked the remote, and an obvious sniper weapon appeared onscreen. Kenny noticeably shifted in his seat, cupping his chin in one hand. "This, chaps, is probably the best—among all categories—Sniper Rifle in the _world_ yet to be produced."

"Hm…how so?" Kenny asked.

"As you can see, it seems quite compact…and it is. Compact, durable, easy to use and efficient, I cannot think of anything this weapon is _not_ good in."

"Oh, really?" Charlie said.

"Besides the absence of a prone stander," B.J. said, meaning an attached bipod or tripod, "_Yes_."

"Please, continue…" Kenny said smoothly.

"This is the StA-52 USIR [pronounced oo-seer, and as you may be able to tell from the obvious name…and perhaps vaguely from the design, is that it is modeled after the SAR, especially using the PIOC system. What I am about to say will fascinate you all…the ammunition type is 14.5-millimeter APFSDS rounds." He paused. "Anyone wanna volunteer?"

There was silence.

But just as B.J. began to explain, the PA came online and Colonel Jacob Locke's voice filled in the hush: "Armor-piercing fin-stabilized discarding-sabot rounds are high-velocity powerful ammunition units that use the familiar sabot system to allow for a quicker and more potent shot."

His voice signed offline.

Everyone seems shocked, yet unsurprised.

"Thank you, Sir." B.J. said, half-smiling. "And so you may have, at first, been stunned that it was not fifty-caliber magnum, but trust me gentlemen—_Kenny_—this can be far more potent than a fifty-cal round. Secondly, despite the compact design and thus you may expect a louder report, the report is relatively quiet for the caliber and potency, although the bullet does leave a trail of thin smoke…and process of bullet literally slicing air."

"_Nice_."

B.J. nodded. "And, what's even _more_ nice—is that the cylindrical clip, not only being easy to reload like the SAR, but also contains an incredible 15-round magazine.

"_Damn_." This time it was Julius who exclaimed.

"Lastly, for the light-brown camouflaged USIR," B.J. said, "is the magnificent scope. Pop open the silicone cap and peer into a lens that can be altered into three different viewing modes: infra-red, night-vision, and normal magnification. At infra-red and night-vision, however, you cannot zoom. But in normal mode you can zoom up to an incredible 16-times magnification, although—as you know, Kenny—it is far more difficult to track your target in such a close zoom."

"Of course."

Although B.J. had announced that this was the end-of-the-line of WAR's new arsenal for them, he was only beginning. Next up he clicked the remote to view what looked like a .357 Magnum revolver, stainless-steel style.

"Make my day…_punk_—" Charlie had fun saying it. He just couldn't resist.

"Not quite, unless you're facing a Lycan." B.J. said. "Say hello to HELP's best anti-Werewolf weapon we have yet to produce. The .357 Titan. Sure, it may just look like a revolver, but, better yet, is the ammunition." He paused. "Prepare yourselves, gentlemen…this will be a great shock, a surprise, and a mighty fine addition."

Everyone shifted in their seats, Kenny leaning forward.

"The ammunition has a breakaway silver coating—pure silver that is—with the best-of-the-best inside: liquid silver nitrate. The initial impact, in traditional .357-Magnum caliber, plus the silver coating, is quite powerful—not to mention painful. And _then_, as the bullet's exterior peels away once it enters the body, the capsule containing the liquid shatters—allowing entrance into the Lycan's bloodstream, the silver nitrate flows. Once in, it's impossible to get out. During their human form, one to two shots in the chest should do it. In Werewolf stature, however, a few shots oughtta do it."

"Amazing," Stewie said, breathless.

"Then you will be dumbstruck when you see _this_—" B.J. clicked the remote and an image of a sidearm appeared, with an individual bullet—appearing similar to the previous—showed. "This, my lucky chaps, is a variation model of the AMT Automag IV, the "Holy Stake." The HS uses similar ammunition to the Titan, except the capsule contains not silver nitrate—but a devastating blend of holy water and garlic juice."

"Talk about a double-whammy," Charlie said, astounded.

"Indeed…and to make it more, the caliber is .45 Winchester Magnum, with a 12-round magazine and similar accuracy and rate-of-fire categories with your new D-Eagle."

"Excellent," Julius said. "And, so this is our answer to Vampyres, correct?"

"Yes," B.J. hissed, "for there's nothing better in the world today."

"So…is that it, Bryan?" Locke asked.

"Yes, Sir—it is," B.J. shut off the projection screen and signaled the lights to come back on. They did, refilling the room with brilliance. The four men rubbed their eyes and shook their heads. They stood up to stretch their legs.


	5. Welcome, Omega

**Welcome, Omega**

9:27 a.m., Nov. 16

"Gentlemen, my fine HELP troops," Colonel Locke announced, "I have been informed that the decoders are finished with decrypting the data on the PDC, but with allowed time—plenty of it, I shall admit—we will get on to other matters.

"As you four know, the loss of your team-mates and our cleanup crew unable to find the bodies has struck a major sorrowful blow to all of this agency. Not only that, but an entire half of your team is forever gone. We will miss them…but, in the meantime, you will not be able to progress into our following missions with a halved squad.

"So we are combining another squad with yours—a team you all have worked with a few times prior, a team who just underwent a recon assignment two days ago and lost a number of their own men…"

At the far side of the room, a pair of double-doors calmly swung open and in walked three men. Two of them had a symbol patched to their chest uniforms: **Ω**. _Omega_. This was what was left of the smaller Omega Squad, a team that originally consisted of six men. Apparently they had also lost half of their team. Knowingly, the entire Bravo Squad has worked before with this regiment, and over that period of shared operations they have bonded.

The seven men were all smiles when they grouped together in hand-shakes and hugs.

The most noticeable entity in the group was a massive Russian man of 6'5" and 283 pounds, Vladimir Sachev. Most called him Vee. He was as bulky as Julius, honestly the black man's equal. Vee was, of course, a Heavy Weapons unit of Omega Squad—their own DemoMan. Some refer to him as the "Russian Giant," despite the more _gentle giant_ manner of his personality—until entering combat.

Next up is a Greek man of twenty-three—Nicholas Petrakis—perhaps HELP's best reconnaissance operative, despite his often goofy manner. Shades almost always shield his eyes, while—when not in combat uniform, as now—he is outfitted in a Hawaiian shirt and khaki pants. He may be the fruity, and not to mention spoiled, side of Omega Squad—but he's also great at what he does.

Finally, perhaps Stewie's ditto, was Kevin "Sev" Barker. He was just about as accurate as Kenny was with a sniper rifle when handling a rapid-fire weapon, make him an efficiently devastating component of the group. All these men, though, were basics of their squad. Except for, perhaps, the Demolitions Man being present as Vee—but otherwise they had lost their distinct sniper and leader…although currently Sev represented the brawn _and_ brains of the squad, thus maybe the labeled leader, he was in no way fit to replace the team's past captain.

"Wait, wait, wait…so _we_'re working together from now on?" Charlie laughed midway through speech, alongside his brother-in-arms Nicholas. Nick smiled radiantly and glanced over to Charlie. His hands gripped his friend's face and shook, nodding. "Yes, my brother—we are one, now." Nick preached, "Omega joins Bravo, so shall you give us an applause, for we are the thunderbolt cast down upon the evil by Zeus's own right hand—"

Wordless in speech, only the silhouette visible behind the tinted glass—a nodding Colonel sat down.

Everyone acknowledged the official juxtaposition, and were more than glad they—the original three and four—got some more of their 'brothers' at their sides. Their grief of their true brothers' lateness still remained buried beneath their skin, but now a new sorrow was born _(what of if/when _these_ brothers die?)_…although it has yet been activated.

"Everyone, please, please…" B.J. hollered, and the seven men finished hugging and gathered around the oval table—but didn't seat—while Bryan Jefferson spoke. "I have gotten word from the Colonel that this new platoon shall be labeled Zulu Squad, since it shall be the ultimate weapon against our ultimate goal…"

He paused; then held out his hand palm-up, as though granting someone to speak.

"Bravo Squad…my boys," Nick "Greek-the-Freak" Petrakis announced, "we have already been briefed about our new arsenal…about the _whole_ situation y'all have gotten down here in Bravo; however, me and my boy here—" he patted Sev's back, "—have made our _own_ accomplishments to this extravagant armory." He paused in speech, whistled, and out of the double-doors came to HELP security officers toting a long plastic crate. They set it down just behind the Omega newcomers, then turned to leave.

"Thank you, gentlemen," Vee smiled and said in his low voice. The two security guards chuckled as they left.

"First up is a modular variant of the Steyr ACR…" Nick opened the lid of the case and removed an impressive assault rifle from its bowels. He shouldered it and displayed it as though professionally modeling the gun. In a way, he was. "If you are relatively familiar with the original Austrian weapon, then it is obvious that _this_ gun barely represents its past design…it has been elongated slightly, with a more padded buttstock and curved magazine. The scope has been greatly redesigned, and although it remains with a normal four-times magnification, its has been decreased in size, giving a more sleeker body than before. Probably most noticeably is the extension of tis barrel…"

Sev grunted as he interjected, "So you may or may not believe that this used to be the ACR…afterall, it does indeed look more like a US assault rifle than anything else—perhaps a revamped M4? Perhaps…"

"So," Nick regained control of the presentation, "besides all of these things…it is probably even more notable the presence of the grenade-launcher just below the barrel. It is single-shot, of course, compatible with only 40-millimeter HE grenades and having an incredible propulsion drive behind each pump-action shot. The primary ammunition, meanwhile, remains the ACR's fine 5.56-millimeter armor-piercing rounds, with improved accuracy and range."

"Why does it look like the clips are…_taped_?" Stewie asked.

"Because," Sev said, "they _are_. Each magazine contains fifty 5.56-millimeter AP rounds; but, since one is securely taped to the other, once one magazine is depleted, simply flip it and you have a one-second-long reload time. Easy as you could be…thus, in a way, this gun practically is fitted with a hundred-round magazine."

"Now _that_'s tight." Julius said.

"But," Vee began, in his thick Russian accent, "if it's so simple—and _easy_—then why has it taken you a hundred years to achieve it?"

Everyone stared at him for a moment. This was that familiar look that acknowledged that he was correct in some way, but they dared not admit or—or didn't have a valid answer. The silence broke when Nick slammed the XAF of an assault rifle against the floor; the _crack_ was louder and more sudden than anyone would have expected, plus the glass lens shattered as well. Not the most subtle way to get everyone's attention, but it worked.

"What the hell did you do _that_ for?!" Julius almost charged him.

"Chill, chill my brothers…" Nick said as though he were drunk. In fact, he may be. "As you can see, there is absolutely no reason to have these lazy-ass degraded flashlights anymore…because that's why Sev and I have helped the agency produce a more effective means of lighting—" thence he retrieved from the crate a simple-looking military helmet. He put it on and pressed a miniscule button on the left temple; hissing out of that side came a dropdown metallic arm that unfolded a holographic patch over his left eye. "_This_ simple hologram can, at will of the finger here—" again he tapped the side of the helmet, "—easily switch from an accurately in-depth portrayal of what you see into two optional modes: infra-red and nightvision. The 'normal' mode, however, is an automatic light-amplification setting we call LAVA [Light Amplification Visualized, where—with the awesome absence of a flashlight—you get amazing non-glare results from a holographic processor turning shadows into sunlight."

"Oh…" Julius said, apologizing for his startle. "Oh, okay…"

"So…is that it, then?" Stewie asked.

Sev shrugged, stepping away from the crate. "Yeah…everything else in there is just more ammunition and weapons for what we've shown you."

"Well _damn_, then—" Kenny said happily. "_Welcome_, Omega Squad."

"We be _Zulu_ Squad, now," Vee smiled, mostly.


	6. Target Practice

**Target Practice**

9:40 a.m., Nov. 16

"Zulu Squad," Colonel Locke's voice interjected over the speakers, "our new utmost platoon in HELP…get your final reward of the day."

Everyone awaited for what they hoped to be strippers. Unlikely, they knew, but not impossible.

Then the next-best-thing in their minds was spoken of. Before Colonel Locke signed off the PA, he said one final two words: "Target practice."

* * *

At HELP, the agency's way of giving their operatives advanced practice in the use of their weapons—especially updates units—is much different than other armed organizations. Instead of using the common plastic, paper, cardboard, or other inanimate material as a target, HELP deploys 'special' subjects against the troops in an environment made to mimic some of their childhood experiences. First, like _what_ subjects? Usually Dragonals—the flying four-foot-tall foraging savages—because they're speedy and improve soldiers' reflexes with their weapons; others include Shadow Imps, but with their 'special conditions,' they have been ridden of their demonic powers, if any, by HELP's PAR (Paranormal Research) team. Although other subjects are used, the main point is that these live subjects tend to be a much more effective way to improve a squad's combat skills than inanimate targets. As for the soldier, he is protected as usual—helmet, double-layer Kevlar, usual uniform, boots, and associated weapons—but when they get too close to severe injury, or any at all, the nearby PAR team will assist in detaching the assailant.

Unless, of course, the _assailant_ happens to be a raging soldier upon a targeted paranormal.

Then there's these 'childhood environments' that HELP mentions in the first place. For, afterall, why stand behind a counter and shoot at harmless targets from afar? Instead, HELP inserts their squad altogether (or separately) into an environment usually outdoors, with a wide dome stretched overhead so that no paranormals could possibly flee. Usually there are many obstacles, often real-life, that act as pieces of coverage or placements from which a paranormal could surprisingly assault. This sort of practiced could relate to many teenager's time spent in outdoor paintball combat. The second and only other form of this 'target practice' resides in a vast underground level of the HELP facility designated specifically for this purpose; as an indoor arrangement, however, it is more intended for close-quarters combat, and thus a varied range of subjects may be put against the operative.

* * *

It was not long before the seven men encountered possibly the most difficult part: selecting his individual arsenal. In the newly-arranged and evidently updated Main Armory in the HELP facility, Zulu Squad begins their solo line at what is their equivalent to a buffet line: choosing weapons.

Of course, there was a limit. And, as always, any armed man despises whatever sort of limit there is on weaponry. But this had to be followed; _always_. Even Julius and Vee were forced to follow this guideline: a maximum of three weapons, not including grenades. Then again, in practicing situations grenades or any type of explosive weapon is forbidden.

"Hmm…" Charlie seemed to have the biggest crisis when it came to selecting which weapon. Then again, one thing that made this process much easier—for all of them—was that, at the time being, weapons with such 'special' ammunition as the new anti-Lycan and anti-Vampyre items were not included.

After spending a minute or two eyeing what he swore was the G36E, Charlie decided to seize it off of its rack. He turned around to where two PAR men sat on a bench and gossiped.

"Excuse me," Charlie said, half-smiling and apparently confused. "Is this not the G36E?"

At this, the PAR men were a bit surprised that Nick nor Sev had discussed this earlier. These two men were elsewhere in the vast armory, so the PAR members took to it.

"We apologize for the unconventionality of this," one of them said, standing and retrieving the assault rifle from Charlie's loose clutches. He cleared his throat and raised his voice, so that everyone turned around. When Nick and Sev, from afar, realized this—they merely continued with their personal selections. Perhaps they _meant_ to leave this one out.

"Although," the PAR member continued, "this may be a mere, and perhaps _miniscule_ upgrade, it is nonetheless significant. This looks, yes, of your past-standard G36E assault rifles, except with obvious modifications to size and whatnot. For the scope, number one, has been improved to an _adjustable_ 1.5-times to 4.5-times magnification, in order to allow for further precision." He noted, briefly, the tiny knobs at the side of the rear-sighted integrated scope. "Secondly, the size has been brought down slightly from the model-E design; true, it may still be a classifiable _assault rifle_, but with a two-inch-shorter length and half-inch decreased width, it has been made slightly more compact to fit your mobility needs."

"Thirdly," the other raised a finger, while his predecessor continued to hold the weapon, "this model has a larger magazine capacity, this time of about fifty rounds. Thus, overall as you may realize, this model seems quite a bit like the lil' brother of the new Steyr ACR. However, the lack of its assault rifle potential, magazine capability, and grenade launcher make the G36X a simple, say, "understatement" of the ACR—"

"I'm sorry," Stewie said, "but did you just say G36-_X_?"

The PAR man nodded. "Or, because of the confusing sounds of six-and-x—"

"The G30-_SEX_," Nick just loved saying that.

The PAR duo sighed, nodded, and rolled their eyes on their way back to resume their seat. The one with the G36X returned it to Charlie. Charlie practically laughed. He took it, gripping the weapon firmly, and then slung it as his first weapon.

Meanwhile, Kenny was off in the long-range weaponry category, particularly the sniping weapons. Within a heartbeat he chose the StA-52 USIR. But this selection, for the time being, was merely mental. He examined it with his distinct eyes the way a heterosexual man observes a nude woman…finally, then, his hands reached out and fingers gripped around the stock and barrel. When he lifted it up off its rack, he was quite shocked—gladly, though—at the weight of it. It felt incredibly comfortable in his clutches, especially when he shouldered it and felt like cuddling the compact design like a child to a teddy bear. After a moment of feeling the model, Kenny slung it and was on towards his second and third weapons. These, for him, would obviously be a compact rapid-fire weapon and then a sidearm. He was, afterall, HELP's utmost Sniper.

Just then Stewie passed him by as Kenny moved over to the handguns section. Stewie barely noticed the USIR slung unto his back, for its compact size.

"Can't wait to see you blow the head off a demon with _that_, Kenny." Stewie grinned.

"I'm as nervous as any…" Kenny replied, continuing to walk.

_It's what you do best, Kenny_, Stewie thought with an internal smile. In his hip-holster was the upgraded IMI Desert Eagle, with a single extra magazine in the holster's left sheath. Stewie's feet halted just short of the distance weapons. Although he has never been fond of sniper rifles, he has been the best-of-the-best among ARs. Despite always being ultimately superior with the G36E, his eyes gradually passed the new model-X. Then his vision lay upon the upgraded Steyr design, the ACR. Just as he retrieved it from the wall among others, a voice arose from behind him. Initially it caused a startle, but that was lucid…anything and everything in these men's lives could cause a jump or flinch.

"Ah, yes—the almighty G-Pack…and excellent—"

"Um," Stewie's eyebrows creased, "_G-Pack_?"

The PAR member apologized. "It's the nickname we've given the ACR—quite an unlikely addition, so heavy and explosive, to a lightweight Steyr design."

"I couldn't agree with you more."

The man grunted in acceptance. Then he asked Stewie a question, "Are…are you a fan of the G36?"

Stewie nodded and smiled. He shot the weapon a glance behind him.

"Then you'll enjoy this ACR even better…just think of it as, say, a more _built_ G36."

Stewie laughed a "thanks," and the PAR affiliate walked off to 'aid' any of the other troops. Subsequently he struck some combat poses with the ACR shouldered, and was just as eager as anyone else was to use it first-handedly. However, Stewie—more alike Julius and Vee—was further eager to actually get back on track in this mission towards "Diablo" and put the weapons to significant test.

But for now, he thought, he better go with it…and use his time 'off the field' wisely. He checked the digital watch on his left wrist. He, as a HELP Captain for two years now, knew the workings of the Colonel's mind and how the agency dealt with its time management. So he estimated a maximum of about seven hours until the brief clean-up resting period following their target practice.

Stewie got back to the situation before him.

He had one more slot to fill for his arsenal. He decided in a blink what to do; he turned around, slung the ACR, and headed for the submachine gun area.

Concurrently, while Vee sat with a PAR associate discussing why he was already done with his selection, Greek-the-Freak browsed his own choices. He was hesitant on which SMG to choose, since his suppressed Walther WA2000 sniper rifle was already slung unto his back. But, sticking with the suppression he so-genuinely was addicted to, he at last chose a classic: Heckler & Koch MP-5SD3 sub-machinegun. He spun the medium-sized weapon around his index finger by the trigger guard, smiling to himself.

Then he hooked it onto a ring at his right hip-holster, near the empty sheath which he hoped to fill with a revolver. The only type of non-silenced weapon he so strictly favored.

So Nick the Greek moved over to that section.

En route he crossed paths with someone he was startled to see.

_Colonel Locke_.

His elder face, with that distinctive scar across his left eye and cheek, those glowering mahogany orbs in their sockets…He was actually quite friendly, depending on who you are—and how you grant his first impression.

"Oh, hello Sir." Nick paused in his steps and raised a salute.

Colonel Locke nodded once to him and told him something in few words: "Bring 'em down, Petrakis."

And with just that, the Colonel turned around and left the Armory. Except for a curious Vee, Nick was the only one to spot Locke ever entering the room.

Nick, understanding what Locke had told him, waited no longer than a couple minutes until he mentioned it to the PAR associates. At that, the two men asked for everyone to gather up their selections and follow them down to the Suiting Room.

Once there, everyone who was not suited-up got into their proper uniforms, which Nick had trouble parting from his adored Hawaiian t-shirt and khakis.

Then they, finally, made way to the OTS (Outdoor Training Space).


	7. Adrenalin

**Adrenalin**

10:28 a.m., Nov. 16

"First up," B.J. sounded—purposely—like a sports commentator. "Is the fruity, swift, Greek Warrior: _Niiiiiiick Peeetrakiiiis_!"

Everyone laughed and cheered, that is, everyone except Nick standing just outside the enormous air-dome. They were on a tall platform that could see the entire acre of obstacles, where Shadow Imps and Dragonals lurked, and where Nick prepared to enter via the far-ended entrance screen.

Nicholas Petrakis did not mind the 'fruity' part of B.J.'s commentary. He actually boasted it. But now it was time for some _real_ stuff. He told himself, though, not to get too serious; this kind of 'practice' can bring out the freak in you, and for Greek-the-Freak, that meant some crazed fun. He stepped through the digital screen, which could only be accessed entrance/exit by B.J.—who of which sat in a comfortable viewing center within the HELP complex; this way Brian remained inside instead of out, and didn't have to strain his eyes through the air-bubble—but instead merely into digital camera-taken screens.

The music began; or, at least, for Nick.

He started down a path that seemed identical to all the others, since it was broad daylight out and the obstacles were quite similar amidst the practice field. And then his eye caught a glimpse of something far ahead, something like a moving chunk of darkness.

_Shadow Imp_.

He managed to climb up atop a risen bunker obstacle, and there he laid out onto his belly in prone position. Subsequently he set the Walther sniper rifle up, with a attached bipod, and peered through the lens. He adjusted the dials for magnification on the side of the scope, until it reached approximately 7x zoom. There he spotted the oily

body of a Shadow Imp, its back to Nick, seemingly communicating with something else. But when Nick scooted himself over to the right, he saw that the creature was actually commuting with _four_ more of the bastards.

Nick pulled the trigger.

The demon facing the one with its back to Nick's view received a 7.62mm AP round to the face. The back of its head opened up like a watermelon and the thing dropped dead. The others had spotted Nick from afar, screeching and hissing, but it had taken the other a second longer to find Nick.

He pulled the trigger, again.

This shot slammed that certain Shadow Imp in the back of the neck, nearly decapitating it. A second later, Nick fired the semi-auto rifle again, this time finishing the job and obliterating the demon's neck. The remaining two, however, started for Nick. One simply ran, while the other climbed obstacles with incredible speed, creepily mimicking oil over gears.

And then something slammed into Nick's back, bringing him away from the Walther. When he rolled unto his back and looked up, there he spotted an attacking Dragonal. It was flapping its wings and hovering just above Nick, slamming its fists down upon his back and slashing claws, but tearing nothing. Suddenly another and another appeared, and now Nick was in over his head.

There were two quickly-nearing Shadow Imps behind him and now a trio of aggravating four-footer Dragonals in front. He reached for the SMG clipped to his holster, and brought it up to fire. One of the Dragonals darted at him, biting his arm but doing nothing because of the thick sleeves; at that, Nick batted it away and opened fire on the other two. Their indigo blood splattered him like blueberry juice, while the other fled away. Nick only got to his feet and shot after the coward, tearing it down just before he ran out of ammo.

Nick's heart beat faster and faster like crazy, despite his knowing that he could not get wounded in here. Perhaps some bruises or minor cuts, but nothing even near severe.

Nonetheless, it was the adrenalin. It did it for everyone, not just Nick. It brought them into a state of strength, endurance, and energy.

This was the ultimate combat fuel.

_Too bad it isn't an energy drink_, Kenny had once said.

And then it struck him—square in the back—amidst his reloading. His hands dropped the MP-5SD3 and its loading magazine, which clattered at the base of the bunker obstacle for which he stood. But what had hit him in the back sent him flailing off the obstacle, where he uncomfortably landed on the ground. He managed to quickly get up, reaching for a weapon yet finding nothing but a heavy handgun in its sheath. He retrieved it, brought it forth, and pulled the trigger the second as the Shadow Imp leapt from above.

The report was a boom, as usual, and landed a heavy .357 Magnum round in its gaping mouth. The bullet nearly took off its head, killing it 'well.' But then the other came crawling around the corner, hissing and screeching, but again—it was _Nick_ who was just too fast. He spun the aim of the Colt Python Elite in the direction of the incoming Imp, and pulled the trigger without hesitance: once, twice. The first round slammed into its chest, sending it stumbling backwards but still alive; the second punched it in the throat, spraying a fountain of slick blood. Finally, the demon collapsed.

Nick's 'turn' was short-lived.

All that was required of the troop was to use all three of his selected weapons, whether it be reluctantly (like Nick) or willingly. So now, with all the previously-inserted creatures downed, Nick was granted exit from the air-dome.

Following him with a bright smile was Charlie Newman.

"Next in is the smartmouthed," Charlie saluted proudly as B.J. went with his honest commentary, "young and loony _Charrrliiieeee Neewwwwwmaaann_!"

"Char-lie! Char-lie!" Everyone else hooted and waved their weapons as Charlie entered the dome.

Once in, Charlie was _on the line_. He knew this was all practice, but he also wanted to prove himself…well, even _more_.

But Charlie was not as fortunate as Nick had been; he got a hit after his first five seconds of entrance. A flying Dragonal swept down from above and slammed its lowerbody into Charlie's head. Charlie, startled, had no way to react except from the force he had taken; he was flung a couple feet to the side, but his fingers remained gripped to the G36X, even as he landed uncomfortably. Of course, Charlie's stay on the ground was not well-accompanied by the Shadow Imp he had accidentally downed.

"Whoops!" Charlie practically laughed, jumping to his feet and spraying half a round into the crippled Imp. When the demon went limp, allegedly dead, Charlie turned to see that the Dragonal had brought back friends:_ three_ of them. He quickly shot-down two of the creatures, whose marred bodies dropped limply, but then was forced to reload. At this, Charlie's intelligent-sided brain took over and he let go of the GS6X, and reached for the weapons holstered at his sides; speedily, he managed to unholster them just in time…and brought on a hail of 9mm gunfire to the remaining Dragonals.

Charlie Newman was a bit disappointed, though, when B.J. summarized his visit. He thought that he was going to get a bit more of a battle.

Yet as he holstered the dual Mini Uzis and retrieved his fallen assault rifle, B.J. explained about the slight rush over the PA: "We apologize for the haste, but with some time issues we are saving the best 'til last…"

Stewie, being Captain of his team, knew that he would probably be one of those last ones. Everyone else either figured Vee or Julius.

On the way out of the dome, Charlie high-fived Kenny as he went in.

But the second B.J. began a commentary on Kenny, everyone saw Kenny raise a hand and give the act of slicing his throat. This meant pure _silence_. When he activated the

microchip in his collar by pressing, and spoke into it, everyone got excited. The words he whispered into it were cast out across the PA: _Lemme make this quick…_

The moment he stepped in, Kenny darted down a path from which Nick had previously taken, and within as couple seconds clashed with the first opponent: a Shadow Imp. The horrific demon screeched with its hideous face glaring up at Kenny, but that was all short-lived. Kenny shoved the pointed but short muzzle of his new USIR into the gaping mouth of the Imp, and quickly pulled the trigger. The boom of the report was slightly stifled by the Imp, and especially the consequential explosion of its head.

The Imp collapsed into a heap of its crisping once-oily flesh, and then a second of the beasts came towards Kenny from above. It had slung itself over an obstacle and was spread-eagled to assail Kenny. But Kenny was too fast, despite the past-injured leg, and spun aside, once again shouldering the compact sniper rifle. He pulled the trigger once he was kneeling and aiming skyward, nailing the Imp in the chest. It was an awesome one-shot kill, something that Kenny admired just as he did the stream of smoke that had sliced the air.

Kenny had the vacancy and time, it seemed, to calmly set down the USIR, just before _another_ Shadow Imp—and a flock of six Dragonals—approached from different angles. While the Dragonals surrounded him from above, the Imp came from behind him, cunningly slithering along the ground. Kenny's stomach tightened, merely because of the horrific sight of this, and then pulled out the JAWS Viper pistols from their holsters. He spread his arms wide and began shooting; he dropped half of the Dragonals before they could even move, and then the Shadow Imp tackled him, taking him off his feet and sending him hard against a pile of sandbags. Kenny had dropped one of the pistols but kept the other gripped firmly in his left hand, and was already shooting at the Imp whose arms were wrapped around him. The disturbing demon continued to gnaw fiercely at Kenny's Kevlar-sheathed chest, but to no prevail, although making Kenny all-the-more uncomfortable.

Finally Kenny shot a few .45 ACP bullets into its shoulders, causing it to loosen its grip. From this Kenny slipped from its oily clutches and shot a couple last rounds into its hissing face. The dying demon was the least, now, of Kenny's worries.

By this time the remainder of the Dragonals hailed Kenny with their chattering and slashing of claws, flapping of wings…

Kenny managed to actually grab a hold of one of them, squeezing his fist so tightly that he choked the creature, while the others snapped at his face. One of the scavenging bastards actually managed to snip Kenny's ear, drawing a miniscule of blood, but only making Kenny stronger. Why was because now he was truly _pissed_. His timing from the earlier announcement had faded, so now Kenny Jenson had to make up for it.

He suddenly swung his free-handed arm around, knocking down both of the Dragonals, then slamming his boot into the face of one—killing it—and filling the other's body with .45-caliber lead.

Everything, finally, went silent.

Kenny apologized as he exited the dome, weapons all back on him, for his incorrect timing.

"Don't worry, Kenny—we all get mixed-up in combat." Julius's voice was a bit more enlightened then usual. But then when B.J. announced _his_ entrance, Julius merely grunted upon approach the air-dome. Once in, Julius took a deep breath in, heaved it out, and trudged forward. He would be today's first 'gradual' approach to the routine.

However, a change to Julius's usual-heavyweights is the lightweight LMG Stova. Nonetheless, the dual upgraded-IMI Desert Eagles did add to the weight, but also took up his remaining vacant spots.

Suddenly a hideous screech brought Julius to an abrupt stop. He planted his booted feet firmly into the earth, letting them sink an inch into the soft ground. Hipping the Stova and snapping back the firing lever, Julius stood completely immobile. Nothing but the bold eyes moved in their sockets, surveying his immediate surroundings.

Apparently, _nothing_.

And then that familiar slithering sound entered his ears, and his whole body shifted to one side, as Julius spun around to face his rear. He had only gotten a few

meters from the entrance, so he had supposed that there would be no room for sneak-attacks.

But evidently there was.

The cunning Shadow Imp, however, was unsuccessful in reaching its target before resistance; thus it received a hail of 9.2mm lead to the face. In a second, the creature was on its back convulsing up its own oily blood, choking on its last bits of breath, gore, and lead.

Julius was forced to move his legs and work up speed, nonetheless, when that familiar screeching entered his ears.

_Dragonals_.

He began running, as fast as he could, down the path before him. And then, just as he turned a corner to gain cover behind a plastic obstacle, he ran into another Shadow Imp. The creature was as startled as Julius, except Julius had the more responsive reaction. He slammed the barrel of the Stova into the side of the Imp's face, knocking it off its tentacle-feet and landing it into a shallow trench. But by the time the creature went to slither its way out, it glared up to see its bulky opponent aim two handguns at itself.

Triggers were pulled, four times total.

Julius liked the way the now-slung Stova felt, but just the same felt amazing with the upgraded D-Eagles. He spun them around his fingers like a cowboy would do, and then turned to be assailed by a flock of Dragonals. He was surprised and thence toppled off-balance, falling unto his back. Just as he fell, though, the man drew up the pistols and took some frantic shots before landing.

One, two, three, and four Dragonals dropped with vital .50-caliber bullet wounds in them, leaving three remaining. One actually reached Julius and managed to slash at his forehead with a wing-claw, but that was also the nanosecond before its face burst from a point-black shot to the mouth. While one of the cowards actually began to flee, the other swept inward towards its target.

But the moment it was blown from the sky by a twin-shot from Julius's dual-wields, the other turned to enact an unlikely vengeance. Its speed was dying down, which Julius actually took as an ironic advantage. He gradually got to his feet, holstered the two Desert Eagles, and then went to draw the Stova. By the time it was in his hands, the Dragonal had reached Julius, and was homing-in-on his face like an airborne torpedo—with claws.

Unlike the other smaller Dragonals, this one actually lived up to its average size of four feet, with a similar wingspan. So when it reached Julius, he decided not to use anymore ammunition and instead batted it out of the air with the butt of the LMG. The creature landed, slightly injured, but began to get back to its feet.

And then a large, heavy booted foot slammed into its body—crushing its torso frame and shoving it into the soft ground. The struggling savage, clawing harmlessly at the boot, was helpless and had most of its upper body vulnerable.

Julius greatly enjoyed beating the Dragonal to a bloody pulp with the muzzle of his new Stova, now blood-tainted from the lifeless Dragonal. When he lifted his boot to exit the air-dome with a grin, the Dragonal stuck to his sole. He did not realize this until he reached the screen, where the creature finally was repelled. Julius had just the laugh for it, too.

"Neeeeext up, is the alllmiiiightyy Vladimiiiiiiir Saaaacheeev!"

Vee was not all that excited about this, seeing how he has only done it twice before. One of those times was in the SIP (Subterranean Indoors Practice), giving him very little mobile space. However, he was indeed eager to proceed with this new utmost-importance mission. He wanted to prove himself even further, and make a major difference to this agency.

He strode into the air-dome like the Russian giant he was, carrying with him some not-so-intimidating weapons. Then-again, as with Julius, no explosives were allowed in the field of practice. But for now he toted, in his large clutches, a Vulcan Minigun. Slung unto his back was a classic Browning Assault Rifle (BAR) and in his right hip-holster sat an upgraded IMI Desert Eagle.

Vee was wondering, as he trudged into the air-dome, what B.J. had meant by "leaving the best for last." All _he_ knew was that one of those matches would involve him—and the other his follow-up to enter, Stewie. Vee pondered his thoughts, though keeping a lookout, and imagined all things but what appeared next.

_Chimera_.

A hideous humanoid paranormal creature with large split-pupil eyes and a mouth of needle-like fangs. They stand on-average to 6'5" and sometimes taller, though slender with reaching arms ending in long talons. Strategically intelligent, unfortunately for HELP, the "Chimera" have had major success against humans in the past. Usually armed with any type of weaponry they can operate—even manmade guns—the Chimera were Area 51's fourth extraterrestrial encounter just half a decade ago. HELP has, since then, taken over the holding rights of the aliens and harvested them successfully with full security—breeding them into the perfect practice targets. Although they, on occasion, show up in the field—armed—against HELP's active operatives, the agency remains clueless as to how they reappear, prepared with their own weaponry just like the first encounter five years ago. Nonetheless, on the practice field HELP has given them a narcotic that lessens their natural ferocity a couple lethal levels while still keeping them aggressive—and gives them assault rifles with rubber ammunition; it still hurts, but it doesn't kill.

Vee's eyelids shot wide open and he fired at will as the creature screeched shrilly. Of course, so did the Chimera; Vee received six rubber pellets to the chest, but to the Russian Giant—they were like pebbles. Meanwhile, the Chimera got a mouthful of lead, collapsing quickly, going limp and bleeding the radiotoxic blood it's named after. Vee stood clear of it though, while its toxins slowly rose and dispersed into the air; just then, though, Vee was caught off-guard as another Chimera bolted from behind him.

He felt its slender but forceful weight upon him, pushing him to double-over, but still keep his stance. He felt as its talons pressed into his Kevlar, but didn't reach his skin. Vee suddenly stood and shocked the Chimera with a backwards body slam: he threw himself up off his feet and slammed back-first into the ground. The Chimera that had wrapped him with its arms unto his back was now crushed in between Vee's body and the ground. As the Chimera went from a whiningly struggling creature to a limply lifeless hunk of alien, Vee was bombarded with a flock of seven Dragonals and a Shadow Imp down his path.

He shot wildly, still supine, into the air. One, two, three, four Dragonals dropped bloodily from midair, and then Vee lay aside the Vulcan because he wished not to bother with its weight at the time. So instead he took the BAR to his clutches and batted down another Dragonal—this with the weapon's butt—and shot the sixth straight out of the air. But the moment the third had circled to attack his head from behind—clawing ferociously but doing merely minor damage—the Imp had closed-in. Once again the Russian Giant was toppled off his feet, thus falling sideways while the beastly Shadow Imp frenzied atop him.

Since the BAR had been knocked from his grasps, Vee struggled to unholster the D-Eagle from its sheath. Meanwhile he shielded his own face with as much of his left arm as he could, until finally his fingers gripped the butt of the pistol—and whipped it out of its sheath.

Vladimir Sachev downed the flapping Dragonal with two shots without even glancing, and then brought down his blocking arm to glare face-to-face with the Shadow Imp.

After staring down into its infernally black eye sockets, Vee shoved the muzzle of the heavy sidearm into the Shadow Imp's mouth—pulling the trigger thrice. Three large concentrated holes opened up the backside of the Imp's skull, blowing its oily brains and blood out and giving it an instantaneous limp feel. Vee waited only seconds before the Imp disintegrated as all would do—whether they were bred from the agency or from the fiery pits of Hell itself.

Vee stood, at last, sighed and brushed himself off, then gathered up his weapons. He ended-up waltzing right out of the air-dome just the way he had come in—except now with an immense grin spreading across his heavy Russian face.

But there was no further delay to the last member's entrance into the OTS air-dome, which came the bewildered Stewie Kensworth. The look in his eyes, despite the firm grip on his weapons and hidden smile, cried inaudibly "What!? _Chimera_!?" Nonetheless, the young man made his way into the dome simultaneous to B.J.'s entry announcement.

"And finally—last but certainly not least…past squandron captain, the elite of the elite," B.J. paused to see Stewie giving out thanks via a smiling face and blowing kisses to an imaginary crowd, "Theee ooooone-aaaand-oooonlyyy, Stewwwiiiiiiee Keeeennnsswoorrrrrrtthh!"

Yet the second Stewie's booted foot pressed into the soft ground of the OTS, everything fell completely silent. But now Stewie knew just what to expect. He had in-hand his new Steyr "G-Pack" ACR, loaded both with its interesting magazine and a single 40mm HE grenade in the underlying 'launcher. Stewie understood that absolutely no explosives were allowed in the practice field—ands that firing, even accidentally, one could result in severe punishment. But he just wanted to get the feel of it with a loaded grenade, and being the elite operative he was, Stewie would be fine from 'accidentally' firing the 'launcher. Meanwhile in both of his hip-holsters was that favored—and especially upgraded—Desert Eagle.

Knowing what to expect, now, Stewie was prepared more than anyone prior. He had that advantage. Moreover, he had the combined accuracy of both his weapon types combined with potency to give him a further benefit—primarily against the cunning Chimera.

He only hoped that he would not be caught off-guard—

Abruptly his thoughts of anything were terminated when a shrieking Chimera tackled him…from _above_. As Stewie slammed face-first into the earth and rolled over to come face-to-face with his hideous foe, he noticed a towering obstacle that he must have passed by. That was the Chimera's point of attack.

Although Stewie found himself feeling quite dumb for passing such a high position by without proper caution, he dealt with what as at hand for the moment. The Chimera took a mindless action by screeching in its opponent's face—intimidating Stewie as he lay there fallen from the Chimera—so the human reacted by taking advantage. Stewie jerked down the trigger of the ACR and thus shot a stream of point-blank-range 5.56mm AP lead into the Chimera's abdomen. The creature recoiled for four continuous seconds as the bullets entered its slender body and exited through its back, so painfully, and thus it subsequently collapsed off of Stewie. It rolled aside, still twitching in agony as its radiotoxic blood gushed from its opaque body.

Stewie, despite wishing for it to suffer infinite anguish, knew the smart thing to do and quickly did it—a swift pull to the trigger put two rounds into its head. The Chimera ceased movement. Expecting a rapid counter-attack either by another Chimera, Shadow Imp, or group of Dragonals—Stewie stayed particularly alert, but only to his disappointment.

And then B.J. came online the PA and said in a soft but audible voice, "We have to hurry it up, Stewie—so let's head out…"

Stewie sighed and cursed to himself simultaneously, slinging his ACR but keeping hovering hands near the D-Eagles at his sides. He began mumbling to himself that he would miss the opportunity to, at least, bust out a move or two with the 'new' Desert Eagle, when he turned around only to be half in fright. The other half of him shot instantaneous reaction reflexes down his arms and into his hands, which sprang his fingers to grip both the D-Eagles and bring them forth.

He was staring at the sneaky Shadow Imp for a split-second until he fired.

The moment prior, though, he realized that everyone was chuckling—that B.J. has made that announcement perhaps half-true—but the other side of it was to trick Stewie into holstering his weapons and be shocked by a cunning Imp stalking him from behind. It worked…barely.

Stewie pulled the trigger to each weapon in his hand. Two identical muzzles flashed with the report of a .50-caliber action-express (AE) bullet exiting the barrel at point-blank range. A nanosecond later, the Shadow Imp's surprised eyes met with one enormous hole in its face, whilst blood and brains splattered its immediate surroundings. Some splashed unto Stewie's clean uniform, disappointing him further—but now, at least, he had used all of his selected weapons.

He could not wait for just one thing, though.

Cleaning off all this infernal ooze that lay sticking to his chest.

The sound of clapping, a roaring applause mixed with hoots arose from both the PA and outside. Stewie displayed a faint grin to himself, flipped the safeties to his D-Eagles off, and slipping them back into their individual sheaths.

"_Now_," B.J.'s chuckling voice arose on the PA, "you—Stewie—are granted exit from this o-so-wonderful practice exercise." He paused, clearing his throat. "But, I was being partially serious on that last note; Colonel Locke has contacted me so that you all must quickly get, eh, _cleaned up_, refitted with your selections and uniforms, and meet in the Briefing Room in at most three hours. See everyone there. Over and out."

His voice signed offline.

Meanwhile everyone in Zulu Squad joined together laughing and discussing things irrelevant to the issue at hand, their upcoming mission that is, as they moved back into the complex. No one was in the necessary need to shower, or at least change to cleanse themselves appropriately—that is, of course, other than Stewie.


End file.
